


Sparks Fly Up

by marvelouskatie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU but still featuring the same sort of society as Westeros, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Romance, F/M, pulls some plots from ASoIaF and twists them around a bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:19:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1842397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvelouskatie/pseuds/marvelouskatie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His life is simple. Keep his head down and stay off the radar. Don't get involved. He's been doing it for a few years and he's gotten good at it. Until a wealthy Lord barges into the apartment across the hall and deposits a young girl inside. Sandor could have sworn her hair was red, not raven colored, when he caught a glimpse of her that first night. When a girl calling herself Alayne, who looks an awful lot like Sansa Stark slips into his world, he finds getting not getting involved isn't so easy anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparks Fly Up

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to the first fic I'm posting on Ao3!
> 
> Basically I've just been really sad about The Hound on the show and then I started reading a lot of fic and then started writing a lot of fic. I wanted to write something that is sort of modern so there's like normal clothes, electricity, and instead of swords we have guns. But I still wanted it to exist in Westeros and still have Kings and the feudal system they operate under with Lords and Ladies and all that. So maybe it'll seem a little weird..idk. But like the internet doesn't exist.
> 
> Also Sansa is around 18/19 and Sandor is upper 30's. I wanted to keep the age gap that is presented in the show between them rather than in the books. I think it's an interesting part of the ship. But it's still legal in terms of our world in case underage shipping makes you cringe.
> 
> ANYWAYS, just something for SanSan shippers and for me to get some feelings off my chest. Enjoy it if you're into it, if you're not, that's cool :) Just writing for some fun!
> 
> GENERAL WARNING:  
> This fic may mention/depict harsh things such as violence, war, death, and rape in a not dissimilar way that they are portrayed in the original work. So this is my all encompassing TW for those things.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yet man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward."  
> Job 5:7

## SANDOR

Something woke him up.

It was odd and disconcerting in itself to be woken up when he wasn’t even sure he ever actually slept. He would lay down on his bed, his eyes would shut, and his mind would go blank. Sleep, the way he heard it or at least remembered it, was supposed to involved peace and dreams and a sense of waking up feeling a new brightness had settled on the world while he had been in repose.

He didn’t even have nightmares.

Because he pseudo-slept there was no missing the sudden noise downstairs reverberating against the stucco walls, travelling up the exposed piping and up and up the cracked stairwell, through the stained carpet hallway to his tiny studio on the fourth floor. He lifted his head from his pillow, wide awake and ears listening. 

Some others might have described the sharp noise as a gunshot, but Sandor new that wasn’t a gunshot. Not even close. Twenty years as a marine made him well aware of what a gunshot sounded like. If it had been a gunshot, he could make a firm guess at the type of gun it came from, which would then tell him how many shots the cunt holding it had left to kill him before Sandor put one between his eyes.

The noise downstairs had been the sound of the front door crashing open in haste. It was supposed to be locked firmed, heavy so it would drop closed again to mitigate any intruders that might try to slip into the building behind any residence. However, the scrawny pieces of metal and glass barely hung on its hinges. There was no super in the building to fix it; hadn’t been for at least two years. That was how long Sandor had lived there. 

Whoever owned the building didn’t give two shits about it. Not unlike the rest of the buildings down the block or the ones after that or the ones after that for a good five miles in each direction. It was a shit hole of a neighborhood. 

Sandor laid in his bed, his eyes going to the Beretta he kept within arms reach whenever he went to bed. He waited to hear who had crashed through the door at two in the morning and whether this person or persons were going to be stupid enough to knock on his door.

It could have been another raid. Watchers ran raids through the slums all the time. They were usually random and more often than not fruitless. The Watchers in this city simply wanted to seem like they were being proactive, but didn’t actually hit the places where drugs and guns would show up. They knew to steer clear of those places lest they want to see their balls dangling from the power lines. 

This building had been hit once a couple months after Sandor had moved in and again about eight months after that, so it’d been a while. Sandor wondered if there would be some new little shit on the squad, looking to prove himself, and getting his chest puffed over Sandor’s guns. The last pimple faced cunt to do that walked out with a broken arm. 

Watchers steered clear of is place after that. 

Sandor had picked the building because it lacked in trouble. All the residents kept to themselves. He didn’t notice any dealers or thieves or gangster wannabes living there. He settled in, with his guns, and the few belongs he had that were thrown into his duffle. The bed had existed already and there was a dank looking couch and coffee table from previous tenants. The appliances worked and there was another room off to the side where he could shit and shave. That was all he needed.

When time ran out, he would move to the next shit hole, and forget about the one he was in now. They were all the same either way. 

Rushed footsteps grew closer up the stairs. It wasn’t a raid though, too few feet. Sandor counted two pairs of steps, one of them sure and quick the other a bit more hesitant. The second pair of feet shuffled across the carpet in the hall. He listened as they stopped near his front door and he heard the locks across the way clicking open as a key was turned.

“Inside, my dear.”

A man whispered to his companion out in the hall. It was low and crooning, a cadence of speech that wasn’t fitting with the accents typically found in the projects and slums. It sounded much too like a capital accent for his taste. The one the man called dear, whoever he or she was, did not reply.

At this, Sandor drew himself carefully from his bed and moved forward, closer to his front door, to hear the nighttime invaders a bit better. 

Sandor pressed his eye to the peep hole in his front door, just in time to see a flash of red hair and then the man who had spoken dart inside. The door locked behind them. He waited a while longer, watching, waiting to see if it would be someone he recognized.

He didn’t have to wait long. Less than a quarter hour later, the snake that had slithered into the room across the hall slithered out again. He peered into the hallway and shut the door quickly, locking it as he left. His right hand smoothed back his grey flecked black hair and matching gray eyes darted again, searching for spies. 

Sandor recognized this man. Anyone with a television set and two brain cells to rub together would know his face. It was the master of coin for the country of Westeros.

Petyr Baelish.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

## SANSA

She stood in the middle of the dank room. It wasn’t her room. All she wanted was her room. Not the room at the capital, where she had been living with her father and sister for the past six months. She wanted Winterfell. She wanted the old castle stone walls that her parents refused to replace with a more modern style structure. She wanted her fire place, with it’s beautiful, floral cast iron grate, that warmed her during harsh winter storms and unexpected summer snows. She wanted to hear the echos of wind through the walls and to climb into the beds of her sister and brothers and tell stories about the ghosts of old Winterfell Lords, scaring themselves so badly that sleep would escape them until the safety of dawn burst trickled into their windows.

How badly she wanted home.

“Sansa! Sansa!” A hand touched her shoulder. “Are you listening?”

“Yes, Lord Baelish. Forgive me.”

Even in the blackness of her grief, Sansa didn’t forget her manners. Not that she needed to listen to Lord Baelish’s words. He was repeating the same things he had been telling her in the three day drive from King’s Landing.

Lord Baelish continued showing her around the small apartment. It wasn’t much of an apartment at all, no bigger than her room had been at King’s Landing. Smaller than that perhaps. There was a bed with plain linens and a red blanket. The walls were bare, but seem to be clean. The carpet was a hideous green color, that possessed a few faint stains, and given the location of the building Sansa shuddered to think what liquids had stained it. 

“I’m sorry I can’t procure more suitable accommodations, but you never know who may talk. There is some food in the cupboards,” Lord Baelish indicated, opening the high ones over the fridge. “And bottled water. I would suggest drinking from the tap.”

Sansa’s eyes flicked up to his briefly, to see him giving her a wan smile. She folded her arms around her stomach. The blue cocktail dress she wore, the one she had been wearing when the fled, left her arms bare and cold in the damp apartment.

Lord Baelish stepped toward her and produced his wallet from inside his pocket. He handed her a few bills. “Take this,” he replied. “You shouldn’t leave this room, but in case you need anything--more food, water--this should tie you over.”

“When will you be coming back?” Sansa asked in a small voice.

“I’m to continue on to the Eyrie, to visit your Aunt Lysa. The king had bid me to do so last week.”

An idea occurred to Sansa. “But I can come with you. My Aunt Lysa, she will protect me!” 

She had only met her Aunt a few times when she was just a little girl, but surely Lysa would remember her mother and how close they had been as children. Surely she would give her shelter and protection. Sansa didn’t want to stay alone in the hell pit Lord Baelish had brought her to.

Sansa had become excited by this idea and Lord Baelish stepped forward, running his hands up and down her shoulders and shushing her hysterics. “It’s too dangerous,” he told her. “We don’t know who betrayed your father or who is still loyal to your family. I will go ahead and when I know that it is safe with Lysa in the Vale and that she can be trusted I will come back for you.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” It came out sharp, but Sansa meant it all the same. Over the past twenty four hours, she’d learned that she shouldn’t always trust the people she thought she could.

Lord Baelish looked her deep in the eyes. “You know why.”

Sansa stared back at his grey eyes. So much about Lord Baelish was grey. His eyes, his hairs, his clothes. She let out a sigh. “Because you loved my mother.”

“Because I loved your mother,” the lord nodded. His mouth twitched up but his eyes did not smile. “I respected your father he was a good man. But I did love your mother from the moment I knew her. I would do anything for her. I will do anything for you, Sansa.”

“Thank you, Lord Baelish.”

“Please,” he said running his thumb across her cheek, “call me Petyr.”

“Petyr.”

He smiled again and then moved away. “I should be back within a few days. The end of next week at the latest,” he told her. “I suggest you avoid going outside. This neighborhood isn’t exactly safe for young women on their own. And one more thing.” There was a knapsack on the table by the window. He had brought it with him when they’d entered the room. He pulled a transparent bottle from the sack, full of something black and placed it in Sansa’s palm. 

“Hair dye,” he explained. “This Tully red will certainly give you away if anyone should see you. 

Sansa nodded and let her arm drop to her side once again, gripping the bottle in her hand. 

“I’ll see you soon, Alayne.”

He shut the door and she was alone. She stood in the tiny, dank room her head circle around, her eyes taking in the utter blandness of it all. The feeling of loneliness began to drown her and with a guttural sob she crashed onto the bed, curling up and letting her grief pour out of her.

Her father was dead. Murdered before her own eyes by the boy she thought she loved. Not by his hand, but the hand of his own man, executed for a treason he didn’t commit. Arya, her sister, had gone missing in the chaos, but she was dead too. Sansa was sure of it.

The only reason Sansa had survived was because of Lord Baelish. He had whisked her away as the Lannister men had gunned down every last one of her father’s loyal men. She’d never forget the sight of Jory Cassel, who she had known her entire life, being shot in the head by Jaime Lannister himself. His blood and brains had splattered against the wall and Sansa almost screamed as she was yanked down a corridor and rushed to safety. 

Her brother Robb, was still North, in Winterfell. He would be the Lord of their house now that their father had been killed. But their family and anyone who might choose to stand by them would be seen as traitors. It was a dangerous time to be a Stark. 

That’s why, Lord Baelish said, no one could be trusted. He couldn’t take her to Winterfell directly. He would protect her and do everything he could to see her safe. Lord Baelish was the Master of Coin to the king, which had been Joffrey for the past few weeks, since his father Robert had suddenly taken ill and died.

Joffrey.

Her anger flared in her heart at thinking his name. 

The boy who had kissed her and told her he loved her and promised to cherish her always. Why had she ignored his temper, his selfishness, and his cruelty? Why had she been such a stupid girl? Maybe if she hadn’t then. . .

No, she wouldn’t think about what ifs. They didn’t matter. All that mattered was that for the moment she was alive and safe. In a week, maybe less, Lord Baelish would be back for her and take her to her aunt in the Eyrie. They would send word for her big brother Robb and he would come for her and she would be home. 

That’s all she wanted was home. That would be the thought that would keep her going. 

Eventually, dawn began to break, and her tears dried and she fell into sleep.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
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## SANDOR

It was Friday evening. Sandor had been in his apartment all day. He’d been listening for any activity across the hall, but hadn’t heard a bleeding thing. Normally, Sandor wouldn’t give two shits about what was happening with any of his neighbors or anyone else around him. He minded his own business and tended to keep his chin down. If anyone dared to cross him, he knew how to shut them up quick enough. 

Seeing Petyr Baelish’s face in the Eyrie Village slums piqued his consideration, though. It had been a good half decade since Sandor had set eyes on the man, aside from seeing him on the television or in the papers. Judging by those sources, Littlefinger was still as much a snake as ever. Or Mockingbird, as he preferred to call himself.  
The Master of Coin was known for his philandering ways. He’d owned three of the brothels in King’s Landing and had minor holding throughout Westeros. Sandor knew that prominent men of the capital were accustomed to seeking out Baelish when they needed to hide scandalous affairs. Perhaps it was just one of Baelish’s own affairs that was being hidden across the way.

Then again, women like them were often put in finer establishments or accommodated more handsomely for their silence. Only the serious ones had to disappear. But disappearance was usually more permanent than hiding them away in a shit hole to rot.  
He splashed some water on his face from the bathroom sink and ran his hands over his neck. He pulled the towel hanging over the mirror away to dab his face and his eyes glimpse his reflection. Sandor never liked staring at his face for too long. He knew he was ugly, thanks to the scarred and burned flesh that covered the right half of his face. He didn’t need a fucking mirror to tell him that.

A bit of his long brown hair covered the ugly, pink flesh, but some of that had been burned away, too. He tossed the towel back over the mirror and flicked off the bathroom light.

Since it was Friday night, he was due down at the bar where he worked most nights. Working the night shift usually meant dragging himself in at dawn and sleeping during daylight hours. That suited him just fine. It was easier to avoid people that way. Plus the job was easy. All he had to do was stand around and look menacing. Sandor Clegane had built his entire life on that. If it was a good night, he would get to knock a few drunk idiots around, too. 

He pulled on a heavy pair of combat boots, pulling down his jeans, and grab a black tshirt from his drawer.

As he locked up his front door, he couldn’t help pausing, to try and get a better chance at listening for noise beyond the door across the hall. He held his breath, ears stretching out to hear any glimpse of sound.

He thought he heard a faint sob. Then another.

A girl crying. Whoever the red hair had belonged to.

As he walked down the darkening street--the bar was only a few blocks away--he contemplated his new neighbor a bit more. Petyr Baelish’s dirty secret. The girl, whoever she was, could be his ticket. He was looking for a way to get back to the capital, without getting himself shot on sight, and she could be it. 

Then again, it could also make things worse.

First he would have to figure out who in the seven hells this girl was.

Rock music pour from the bar and out into the street and Sandor pushed open the heavy metal door of Ninestars. There was already a dancer on stage, twisting silver from pockets as she danced bare breasted for the drinkers seated nearby. The bar would fill up and get more rowdy before the day was done. 

“Clegane,” said the brown hair wench behind the bar. “You look like shit.”

It was Shae’s standard greeting to all of the employees. The ones she liked, at least. She didn’t own the bar, but she managed it. Some cunt named Templeton, he’d heard once, but fuck if he knew. Shae had hired him, Shae ran the bar, managed the dancers and whores, and had him kick out anyone she didn’t like the look of.

Sandor knew she had to have been a whore herself at some point. She was exotic and beautiful, maybe not in the sort of way that would turn his head, but he’d seen men looking. Shae knew how to take care of herself though and gods help any man who might dare to touch her uninvited. 

“Whiskey,” he demanded. Shae slammed a glass and poured the liquor into it, sliding it over to him. Sandor knocked it back and choked. “This is shit,” he barked. “Give me the good stuff.”

“You do a good job tonight,” Shae crooned in her thick accent. “And the dog shall have his reward.”

Sandor clenched his fist in irritation, the movement cause the cords of his muscled arms to twist. The large tattoo on his thick arm seemed to move in irritation with him. It was the tattoo that earned him the nickname “The Hound.” That’s what he was best at; being a guard dog.

He was about to bite out another remark when his eyes went to the television above the bar. The news was turn on, a ticker running across the bottom of the screen. Something about Ned Stark, the hand of the king being dead.

“What’s this?” he asked pointing up. 

Shae looked at the television and back to him. “The hand of the King was killed,” she told him, twisted a dish rag into the cleaned, wet glasses. 

“I can read that for myself,” he replied, “who killed him?”

“They say that he and his men were attempting to assassinate the King at his coronation dinner. Ned Stark is being called traitor.”

Sandor let out a snort. “Ned Stark is the least treacherous bastard of all the bastards in the capital.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“I don’t care.” He tapped his glass in her direction. All he wanted was another finger of whiskey.

She pulled a bottle of bourbon from the well, arching one of her brown eyebrows as she poured. “Then why do you ask?”

Shae replaced the bottle and glanced up at the television. The Queen, Cersei Lannister, was preparing to give a statement on her son--the King’s-behalf. Every one of the blonde Lannister shits had been assembled for the press conference. 

Shae moved and grabbed the television remote, turning the sound up and keeping her eyes glued to the screen.

“No one cares about capital games,” a man at the end of the bar yelled from behind his pint, “turn the channel.”

“Quiet, pig!” Shae snapped back at him, turning the sound louder so she could hear.

Like most people in her position, Shae didn’t give a damn about the political intrigues of the high lords in King’s Landing. But Sandor noticed that Shae always had some capital news channel playing in the bar at most times of the day. She’d pay it no mind until something about the Lannister’s would come up, then she would stop what she was doing and watch. 

“Any of those Lannister cunts get shot?” Sandor asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “They hadn’t released the names of the dead.”

The Queen Regent came to the podium. She looked regal as ever and calm, her golden hair and garnet dress showing her Lannister pride. It was the colors that her house favored. She could almost have been beautiful, if it wasn’t for the grim set of her mouth. 

“Thank you for coming,” Cersei said from the television, greeting the members of the press and court in the room with her. “People of Westeros, as you know, our country has suffered a great betrayal. I know there have been many rumors, and I am here to now set the records straight.” She paused, taking a breath, as if whatever she was about to say greatly pained her. “During the coronation feast of your king, my son, Joffrey Baratheon, one of the oldest houses in our country, House Stark, made an attempt on his life and crown. We are shocked and shaken by this act of treason. My own husband was a dear friend of the Starks since he was a boy and our children were great friends. Those who were involved with the heinous plot, have been executed in the defense of your king, including the former Lord of House Stark and Warden of the North, Eddard Stark.” There was a pause for applause and Cersei gracious bowed her head in acceptance. “Our just King has made the decision to invite those in the North, who were once loyal to the House Stark to renew their vows of fealty to the king. He would also like to invite Lord Stark’s surviving family members to pledge their loyalties as well.” 

There was another round of applause and then Cersei announced that she would allow a few questions from the press.

“Who shall serve as the new hand of the king?”

Cersei’s mouth twitched, but Sandor did not know why. “The king has named his grandfather, Tywin Lannister, to be the new Hand. However, because my father has much business to take care of, my brother. Tyrion Lannister will serve as Hand in his stead.”

The camera cut to a shot of Tyrion Lannister. He was a small man, a dwarf, little more than four feet tall, and blonde like the rest of them. If he hadn’t been born a Lannister, he would of been cast out of civilized society or left to die. Because he was a Lannister, he was the new Hand of the King. He nodded modestly, knowing the camera was focused on him.

Next to him, was his brother and the Queen’s twin, Ser Jaime Lannister. Unlike Tyrion, he was tall and broad and handsome. Jaime Lannister was the head of security for the King. Sandor had known him from his time during the capital. He was a cocky son of a bitch and an impressive shot, it would be hard to find a man in all of Westeros who was a better fighter and soldier than Jaime Lannister.

Shae turned from the television against, scrubbing angrily at the rest of the glasses. At first she seemed to be relieved, but then anger flashed over her smooth features. “Little lion shit,” she muttered, slammed the dry glass onto the bar.

Sandor’s mouth twitched, glancing back up to the shot of the Lannister brothers on TV. It seemed the mysterious Shae had some resentment toward the man on the screen. He remembered Shae mentioning once that she had spent a brief amount of time in the capital. He wondered if she had crossed paths with Jaime Lannister. He’d never seen Jaime with a woman himself, but Sandor was sure with Lannister looks and reputation that Jaime had his fair share of women. He’d be the type of man to promise a lady the world and then toss her away when he was done.

Shae grabbed one of the low ball glasses and some of the whiskey from the shelf, pouring herself a drink. “You know what happens now.”

“I already said, I don’t care.”

He drained his glass and then turned and headed toward the door to start his shift. 

Sandor didn’t care but he did know what would happen. Something else was going on in the Capital. It wasn’t as simple as the Starks making a move for the crown. Sandor had known Ned Stark from the war fifteen years ago and he had more honor than any of those other High Lords. Ned Stark wouldn’t kill a man in his sleep any more than he would at his supper table. 

Regardless of what was going on behind the curtain, the death of Ned Stark and the label of treason only meant one thing.

War was coming.  
.  
.  
.  
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## SANSA

Sansa wasn’t sure if Petyr was lying or not when he said he would be back by the following Friday, because he wasn’t. It was Saturday morning and Sansa sat in the bath, hugging her knees to her chest. The water was cold and her naked skin was covered in gooseflesh, but she didn’t care or notice. Her fingers played with the black strands of her hair.

She didn’t feel like herself with her black hair. Peytr had told her to use the name Alayne Stone, not that she talked to any people. She wasn’t even sure anyone else was in the building except for herself.

Well, that wasn’t true. She knew of at least one other person. The man across the hall from her. She’d hear him coming and going at odds times of the day and night. One night, she had been laying in her bed staring at the ceiling whens she’d heard his door open. She’d darted to her own door, pressing her eye to the small spy hole and trying to catch a glimpse of him.

Sansa saw that he was a large man, with long, dark hair that covered his face. He looked intimidating, one large arm covered in an intricate black tattoo. She didn’t get a look at his face, though. 

Other than the man, the building seemed to be empty. Only ghosts lived inside. She was starting to feel like a ghost, wondering if she was alive at all. Perhaps she had died with the rest of them at the coronation dinner. Maybe she had been shot, too, and bled out on the floor. 

She’d heard stories of spirits who died yet didn’t know they were dead. Maybe she had become one of them. 

There was nothing to do in her little room, except watch the television. She’d seen everything they had been saying about her father. How he was a traitor, who had made an attempt on King Joffrey’s life. It wasn’t true. Her father had been best friends with King Robert, he had cried when he’d taken ill and died. Sansa knew there had been some sort of consternation between her father and the Queen, but she knew that he wouldn’t hurt his best friend’s son. Her father wasn’t a cold blooded killer like the rest of them. He was good and honest and honorable and she had been horrible to him over the past few weeks.  
She laid her hand over her arms and began sobbing once again. Sansa had done nothing but sob all week in between watching the news. The little village of Gulltown didn’t get any of the channels she usually enjoyed.

Finally, the bath became too cold, and Sansa decided to get out. She whiped her eyes and lifted herself up, cool air hitting the parts of her body that had been submerged. She wrapped herself in the one thin towel that had been in the bathroom when she arrived and went into the main room.  
In the dresser there had only been a few pairs of jeans and some t-shirts. They were all boys clothing. She had to roll the jeans to make them fit and the shirt hung off her thin arms and chest. She’d been wearing the same bra and underwear she’d had when she’d arrived, washing them out with the soap in the bathroom every other day.

There wasn’t any makeup to be found either. Her pale face and freckles were exposed and there was no way to cover up the faint purple under her eyes. No mascara, no eye shadows, no blush but the natural peach tint to her cheeks. Her face looked even whiter than usual next to her now jet black hair.  
She could only imagine what her King’s Landing friends would say if they saw her now. They would laugh at her and mock her for her ugliness and poor fashion. She would know. She would have done the same to someone else.

Sansa pulled on a pair of the jeans and a white t-shirt, rolling the sleeves up a few times. She combed out her hair and let it air dry. Thankfully, her hair never had needed much managing. All her friends had always been jealous of the way it would look naturally perfect with little or no effort.  
With nothing else to do, she laid on her bed and looked up at the ceiling. She hummed to herself a bit, one of her favorite songs, wishing she had some books to read or some paper and pen. She missed her guitar. Not that she felt much like playing or singing these days. 

With a sigh, she rolled over and flicked on the television, hoping to hear something good.

“This morning, we’ve received word from The Vale that a noble wedding will be taking place soon,” the anchor man was saying. “Lysa Arryn, widow of the former Hand of the King John Arryn, will be marrying Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin for the Seven Kingdoms.” Sansa set up, her dark hair falling forward as she leaned in to listen. “We hear from sources that Lord Baelish, proposed to Lady Arryn, just recently and the two are set to be married in The Vale next weekend.” There was a shot of the happy couple, waving from a balcony of the Eyrie estate. 

Sansa’s Aunt Lysa looked nothing like her mother had. Catelyn had been beautiful, even when she died, but Lysa looked very old for her age. Still, Petyr kissed his fiancee’s cheek and smiled at her like a man in true-love. Next to them, Sansa young cousin Robin jumped up and waved at the people, too, trying to grab some of the attention for himself.

She shook her head as she watched commentator’s discuss the wedding plans, flower arrangements, and even honeymoon possibilities. Petyr couldn’t be marrying Lysa. Sansa didn’t understand it. Not if he loved her mother. Not if he was going to protect her. She couldn’t see where that fell into the plans he had mentioned.  
Unable to take anymore “good news” she turned off the television. Her stomach growled, and she realized she hadn’t eaten yet that day. It was almost sundown. She went to the cupboards to look through what was left. 

Lord Baelish had mentioned there was food, but it wasn’t much. There were nonperishable items, such as cans of soup and crackers, nothing that was filling or very tasty. There were but a few bowls, plates, and utensils. Most of the bottle water was gone as well.

After seeing the news of Lord Baelish’s engagement, Sansa had no idea if he was coming back for her. It could be at least a month. He would be busy with a wedding and then a honeymoon and then settling into his new life as Lord of the Vale, which he would become once he married Lady Lysa.

She went to the drawer, where she had put the cash that Lord Baelish had given her before she left. She put the money in the pocket of her jeans and grabbed the single pair of sneakers from the closet. Lord Baelish had advised her not to leave the room, but if he wasn’t coming back for some time she would need to go out and get things to continue living. Besides, she was going mad cooped up all by herself. Even if she didn’t speak to anyone, she would at least be around other people. 

As she walked out the door, she realized she didn’t have any keys to the apartment. She would just have to hope that no one would try to break in while she was gone.  
It was hazy outside from the rains that had been showering The Vale all week. A bit of coldness kissed her arms even though it was summer. Sansa was more used to the cold than the warmth though. Winterfell had been almost as far North as one could get in Westeros. Her blood was thick and when she had moved south she had enjoyed a chance to live in eternal summer. The bite in the air felt strangely familiar though and she welcome it. 

She had no idea where there might be a shop where she could get some groceries, but she reckoned it couldn’t be too far. The village was rather small and there weren’t many cars, so she guess that most of the smallfolk living there walked to get wherever they needed to go.

There wasn’t anyone walking about, though. The dirt streets were deserted. Sansa spotted some alley cats, scuttling across the street in chase of a mouse. A bright orange tabby broke off and came up to her, weaving a figure eight around her legs. Sansa crouched down to scratch its head. The cat meowed a thanks. She was much more a dog person. The thought of her pet wolf, Lady, sent a pang to her heart.

When she was still up north in Winterfell, before she had moved to King’s Landing with her father and sister, her oldest brother Robb had been volunteering at an animal shelter with their cousin, Jon. The boys had stumbled across a litter of wolves, their mother had been hit by a car. Robb had begged and pleaded for their father to let him bring the pups home.

“There are five of them,” Robb had said. “One for me, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon.”

Ned hadn’t budged. So Robb, being Robb, brought them home anyways. Their father had been angry, but there was no tearing the Stark children away, once they had the pups in their arms.

“Fine,” Ned had told them sternly. “But they’re your responsibilities. You’ll feed them and walk them and care for them.”

Both Arya and Sansa had brought their wolves with them to King’s Landing. They had grown fast and were mostly confined to the kennels that were on the ground’s the King’s vast home where they lived. One day, Arya’s wolf Nymeria had attacked Joffrey.

Sansa could barely remember the fighting that had gone on about it now. She had been walking along the lake path with Joffrey and they found Arya with one of the boys who worked in the kitchens. Everything happened so quickly and Nymeria had jumped up and bitten Joffrey on the arm when he had tried to hit Arya.  
She recalled that Queen Cersei had ordered that the wolf be put down, but Nymeria had ran off. So instead, they took Sansa’s wolf. Poor Lady. She’d done nothing to deserve being put down.

Sansa had cried for days until Joffrey came to her and apologized for all the ugliness and gave her a necklace. 

She adored the necklace and accepted the apology, but could never quite shake the feeling that she’d rather have had her wolf back. When Joffrey placed it around her neck and kissed her, she swallowed the questions she wanted to ask. Why hadn’t he stopped his mother and told the truth?

Sansa didn’t understand then, or she ignored it, but she was beginning to understand now. She had been a foolish girl.

“Well, what do we have here?”

Her head snapped up at the sound of the voice and the shot up from her crouching position. The cat ran off into the alleyway.

Two men were approaching her. One, the one she assumed had spoken, was her height but fat, with a large brown beard and torn jeans. The other was his opposite, tall and thin, lanky arms hanging out of a tshirt that the sleeves had been torn off.

They way they were approaching her unsettled her; they were the cats now and she was nothing but a little alley mouse.

She took a few steps back. “I was looking for a shop,” Sansa said, willing her voice not to shake. “If you would be so kind as to point me in the right direction.”

The fatter man chuckled. “You’re not from round here then?” He smirked and Sansa noticed a tooth missing in the corner of his smile. “I could show you round. Me and Tek, here.” He thumbed in the direction of his friend.

“It’s quite alright,” Sansa continued. “I can find my way if you point me in the correct direction.”

“How bout you come have a drink with us?” The skinny one, called Tek, asked.

“I can’t. My father will be along in just a moment.”

The fat man chuckled. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not!”

“Your father isn’t coming. Nor is anyone else. We watched you come out that building all by your lonesome,” he stalked closer to her. 

Sansa took another step back and hit something. She whirled and saw a third man behind her, towering over her with malicious intent in his dark eyes. She stumbled away.

“Now are you gonna come nice?”

Sansa looked at the three of them and tore off, across the way and down the alley, with a loud scream.

A fleeting thought went through her brain that she could outrun them. One was fat, the other was large, they couldn’t be all that fast. But that hope was smashed when a meaty hand wrapped around her arm and yanked her back. Her captor smashed into a brick wall. Her teeth smashed together as her head hit the brick and she saw stars as she stumbled back.

Two of the men grabbed at her arms and pulled her to the ground, holding her down. Sansa pleaded, tears streaming down her face, begging them to let go.

“I like when they beg,” the fat one said as he dropped in front of her holding. His hands went to his zipper. “Hold her tight.”

Sansa kicked at him as he tried to hold her legs. Her foot struck his face and he cursed. In a flash, he pulled a dagger from his back pocket and held it at her thigh. “You stop that kicking,” he growled. “Or I’ll put this right in your belly. And you’ll bleed and die but slow like so you can still feel me cock in your cunt.”

Blood dripped down from his lips into the rough hair of his beard. Sansa felt her stomach turn. They were going to rape her or kill her or maybe even both. She couldn’t decided which was worse. The image of her sister came to mind. Her annoying, tomboy of a sister. 

Arya would fight them, Sansa thought. Arya would kick and scream and bite and yell until they killed her. Sansa wasn’t sure she had the strength to make them kill her.  
She twisted and squirmed still as he tried to hold her legs open, while the other two dug their fingers into the meat of her arms. Her tears meant nothing to them.  
Sansa bit her lip and kicked her leg out once more at the fat man, her entire body jerking at the sound of a gunshot.

She waited to feel pain, wondering when he had pulled the gun and where he had shot her. Nothing was coming and she wondered if her body had simply gone into shock to block it out. The fat man groaned above her and she saw crimson filling his shirt, running out from the hole in his chest. He slumped and dropped sideways to the ground.

Behind him an even larger man stood, gun held out in front of him, ready and aimed at the two holding her arms. 

“Let her go,” the man said, his voice low and guttural. “And piss off before I give you each a shot to match your friend’s.”

The two men released her at once and ran off. But they hadn’t made it far before then large man fired two more shots. Sansa flinched at each one and heard two groans and two bodies falling to the ground.

The gunman stepped toward and Sansa sat up, shaking. He was large and frightening. His dark hair fell into his face, but not before Sansa got a good look at it. The right side of his face was covered in nothing but puckered scar tissue. He looked terrifying, looming over it.

“Come on, girl,” he said, extending a large hand down to her. 

Sansa’s heart was beating like a rabbit but she took his hand, some instinct trusting that he wasn’t going to hurt her. He grasped her tightly and hauled her to her feet, holding her shoulder to steady her.

Her shirt was torn down the neck from where them men had grabbed her and she clutched at it, folding in on herself. Her eyes went to his arm and she recognized the tattoo there. She’d only seen it through the spy hole on her door, and never the face of the man it belonged to, but she knew it was the same hound tattoo of the man who lived across from her.

Sansa’s eyes lifted once again to his twisted face. Behind him, she saw the sky spinning, and the building twisting at awkward angles. The ground beneath her feet began to move. She felt her body sway and then everything fell to black.


End file.
